


little bee

by psychamonia



Series: t+t hunger games [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Character Death, Friendship, Platonic Cuddling, Sharing a Bed, yeah this one hurt :(
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:53:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26115985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychamonia/pseuds/psychamonia
Summary: “So- Toby, right?” Phil asks, leaning back into his armchair. “Who do you want to be?”---Tommy and Tubbo in the Hunger Games.*Note: Although this story contains things that are often romantically coded, I want to emphasize that it is strictly PLATONIC - don't ship minors, and don't expect close friendships to be inherently romantic.*
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit
Series: t+t hunger games [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982167
Comments: 32
Kudos: 484





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> just a heads up: i haven't read the hunger games in a few years, and the lack of research I put into this is astounding. please regard any inaccuracies (regarding youtubers or the hunger games lore) as a 'creative choice.' thank you!

“The Reaping’s tomorrow.” 

Tommy doesn’t reply, staring out across the fields. They’re in their usual tree, tucked close against the trunk, and the leaves are just barely turning orange with the season. A cool wind chills the back of Toby’s neck. 

He tries again. “Tommy, the Reaping’s tomorrow.” 

“I heard you the first time, idiot.” 

“Well, how was I supposed to know? You didn’t respond.” Toby says, a little exasperated.

Finally turning away from the fields, Tommy smirks. “You’re so dumb, Tubbo.” His voice lifts slightly over the nickname.

The tone that signifies the end of lunch rings out from the guard towers all around them. Toby sighs, tucking his half-eaten sandwich back into the pack he carries around his shoulders. Even with Tommy’s dismissal, he can’t ignore the dread lingering in his stomach at the thought of tomorrow’s event. 

“You helped out at the Center last week, right? D’you know what’s different this year?” 

“Nah, they don’t tell us that stuff. The Quarter Quell’s straight from the Capitol, you know that.” 

Feeling strangely chastised, Toby mumbles, “I just wanted to know if we’d be okay.” 

Tommy scoffs, not meeting his eyes. “Yeah, we’ll be fine. The Peacekeepers like you, anyway.” He says, almost elbowing Tubbo off of their branch as he wedges his foot against the one below them. 

“What do they have to do with it? They don’t decide who gets picked.” 

Tommy’s hollow laugh haunts Toby for the rest of the day. 

\---

Even though summer hasn’t quite relinquished its grasp on the world yet, the town square feels cold and gray in the evening light. Winter seems to have come early, dancing in the shadows and mocking the pinched expressions of the people. 

Eyes skimming over the watching crowd of adults and children, Toby shivers. He left his parents and baby sister behind once they got to the square, joining the eligible teens huddled together by age in the roped area in front of the stage. The kids around him are just as withdrawn as the rest of the civilians: even Tommy has quieted, standing obediently next to Toby as they await the ceremony. 

Their District advisor clicks her way onto the stage, followed closely by the mayor and a man dressed all in green- their most recent Victor. ( _Phil Watson_ , Toby distantly remembers. He and Tommy were just old enough to qualify when the man fought his way to the end.) The advisor sits with a flourish and Phil follows, albeit with less enthusiasm. Taking center stage, the mayor taps on the mic and clears her throat. The event begins. 

Toby zones out through the mayor’s speech, reciting the history of Panem and the Games. History had never helped him, and it certainly won’t come in handy now. He’s either chosen, or he’s not. There’s nothing academic about it. 

He starts paying attention when the mayor directs the crowd’s attention to the screen behind her- the screen that now shows the President, dressed all in white. He’s holding an envelope in one hand, a letter in the other. Though his mouth is moving, there’s no audio. 

The square’s speakers crackle into functioning just in time to catch the end of his speech. “-District will be required to reap two boys and two girls, providing a total of forty-eight tributes in the arena. Double the tributes, double the fun! Don’t forget to tune in to this Hunger Games, folks- this year will be a year to remember.” 

The screen flickers back into darkness, and Toby swallows thickly, hearing Tommy swear beside him. He ignores it, staring up at the blank screen with dread crawling up his throat. His odds just got a whole lot worse.

As the mayor sits, face just as shocked and worried as the rest of the civilians, their advisor flutters to take her place at the bowls of names. Now the center of attention, she indulges in it, taking the time to embellish every movement with a pose and a smile. It’s wasted on the crowd, who all stare solemnly up, waiting. Finally, she dips her hand into the first bowl, pulling two names one after the other. 

“Camellia Birch,” she trills, flicking the paper aside dramatically. “And...Goldie Cameron!”

Toby winces at the girls’ cries, trying to avoid looking as they ascend the stairs. Luckily, he doesn’t know either of them personally- one’s a year older, the other just thirteen- but it’s little consolation when both look just seconds from sobbing. The younger tugs at one of her braids, nearly unraveling it, face scrunching as she tries to keep from breaking down. 

The advisor coos over the two, complimenting their outfits as she arranges them at the front of the stage. Faced with her aggressively insincere kindness, even the oldest looks ready to cry, blinking rapidly as she stares out at the crowd. 

Before long, the advisor’s off again, practically prancing over the boys’ bowl. With a much more dramatic pause, she draws one paper, unfolding it slowly and winking at the camera coyly. 

“The first male tribute for District Eleven is…” The advisor pauses, drawing it out. Clutching his hands together until the knuckles turn white, Toby dares to hope. “Toby Smith!” 

The world whites out. He can’t think, he can’t breathe, he can’t look at Tommy. It feels like the world is swaying- is he still standing?- and then he almost trips and looks down. Completely unconsciously, he’s moved towards the steps and has begun to walk up. Steadying himself with the flimsy metal railing, Toby lifts one foot, then the other, and he’s climbing. Every movement is an effort. He forces his lungs to expand, but there’s no relief in the breath. 

“Oh, my dear!” Comes a voice. The advisor. “You _are_ all lovely this year! So young…so pretty, all of you!” A hand pinches Toby’s cheek, then there’s hands on his shoulders, guiding him to stand next to the girls. 

Toby blinks, trying to clear his head, but the crowd still swims in his vision. Through the chaos, he finds Tommy. His friend’s mouth is open, gaping as they stare at each other. Weakly, Toby swallows down the bile rising in his throat and tries to smile. In the background, he hears the advisor talking again, vaguely notices the watching cameras turning away from him once more. 

He sees Tommy’s mouth snap closed, then open again, then- 

“I volunteer!” 

And the second boy, the one already climbing the stairs, is quickly waved away, and Tommy is brought in his place. They stand by side again, in front of the crowd instead of within it, and Toby’s in shock, washed out on a wave of emotion that he can’t even properly feel, like a bubble welling up inside but stubbornly refusing to pop. 

A hand lands on his wrist- _Tommy_ \- and he turns his hand to grasp it, clinging tight enough to hurt. 

He’s terrified, nearly paralyzed with fear, but they’re here. They’re together. 

For now, that has to be enough. 

\---

Toby doesn’t really remember his goodbyes, sitting shock-still in the tiny white room they brought him to. He remembers staring at a patch of water damage on the ceiling as his sister cries onto his neck, remembers the firm line his father’s mouth forms as he claps Toby on the shoulder, remembers his mother’s hand shaking as she adjusts the lazily-pressed collar of his shirt. He doesn’t remember any words, can’t even recall the sound of their voices filling up that tiny, tiny room. 

He practically floats through the crowd at the station, automatically mumbling apologies to those he accidentally bumps into in his distraction. From the corner of his eye, he sees Tommy exit the building behind him and watches the cameras turn eagerly towards his friend, who’s smiling broadly. Toby recognizes it as his ‘no, sir, I wasn’t anywhere near the Peacekeeper barracks last night’ smile, the one he pulls out whenever he wants to get something (or get _out_ of something). 

Memories of all the pranks they’ve pulled blink across his mind, and Toby’s mouth hitches halfway up in a smile. He clings to the memories like a lifeboat, stubbornly ignoring the fact that they’ll never make more. 

\---

On the train, Phil asks each of the tributes to meet with him in private- to ‘plan their public images.’ He takes the girls first, one at a time, before he calls Toby in to talk. 

They sit across from each other in a small seating car. Everything in the room is green or gold, and everything is opulent beyond belief. Toby sits on an impossibly elaborate sofa, decorated with curling lengths of delicate golden rope that press irritably into his legs and back. It’s almost as uncomfortable as his family’s burlap-covered wooden bench. 

“So- Toby, right?” Phil asks, leaning back into his armchair. “Who do you want to be?” 

Toby doesn’t respond. He stares at his hands, curled together in his lap, and imagines himself anywhere else but here.

Phil sighs, bringing a hand up to rub at his eyes tiredly. “We’ll work on it.” 

\---

The team of stylists is rough, but it feels good to be treated so indifferently. Toby’s noticed the dichotomy in the way everyone treats him and the other tributes in the Capitol. They’re either praised or pitied, with no room in between.

When they’re almost done, Toby catches sight of himself in the huge wall mirror. He looks tiny, framed by the heavily altered trio of stylists, with their curves or muscles or confusingly tall shoes. Compared to them, he’s short and pale and almost scrawny. His eyes seem to pop out of his skull. 

He looks away, and doesn’t look at himself again until he’s reunited with Tommy and the girls. They’re not matching, but they compliment each other. The two girls are flowers, with petaled skirts skimming the floor. Tommy and Toby are in button-up shirts and blue jeans, supposed replicas of their working clothes. 

The material is far too fine to ever stand up to twelve hours in the fields or orchards. It’s just another reminder of how far they are from home. 

\---

Training with the other tributes is a new form of hell. 

It leaves Toby feeling strung-out and wrong-footed, like he’s somewhere he doesn’t belong. The floor of the gym is crowded with people, tributes and trainers alike, and they form a bustling hub of activity that swirls constantly, all under the watchful eyes of the Gamemakers. Everyone seems to have a place to go and a reason to go there. 

Toby definitely doesn’t. Lost for what to do, he spends the first two hours just at the foraging station. It’s the most familiar station, and he already knows most of the plants featured there, but he lingers anyway. Tommy, who started out with him, gets bored after a few hours, leaving him behind in favor of the weaponry station. Glancing over from time to time, Toby sees him sparring a trainer with quarterstaffs, similar to the ways they used to duel with their rakes in the elementary gardens. It’s almost enough to make him follow, but then he accidentally locks eyes with one of the Career tributes. The girl’s gaze burns into him, and she tests the edge of her sword on her finger. Toby hurriedly returns to his plants. 

They break for lunch. Toby nods along as Tommy chatters, talking a mile a minute about the stations and the other tributes and the trainer he _almost_ beat, seriously, next time he’ll get it. If Toby’s honest, it all passes in a blur. He’s glad for the company but not fit to provide any himself, and he’s grateful that Tommy knows that. The constant flow of words makes the ridiculous extravagance of the food easier to choke down. 

Eventually, Toby’s calm enough to contribute, just a few words slipping in along the edges, until he catches one of Tommy’s remarks exactly at the right moment to nudge in a comment that makes Tommy laugh, genuine and open. It makes Toby smile, too, just a tilt of his mouth. 

Neither of them notice the camera flash from the other side of the cafeteria. 

(After that, it’s the photo they use in almost all of the two’s press coverage- Tommy’s open-mouthed laugh as he tips back in his chair, almost far enough to be dangerous. Beside him, Toby’s shy smile settles hesitantly over his features, face tilted up at Tommy as he hunches over his plate. 

Phil leaves the first article at the foot of Toby’s bed. Toby throws it into the fireplace and tries to forget it exists.)

\---

On the last day of training before the private evaluations, a trainer disrupts Toby’s work. 

He’s finally ventured away from the foraging station, though not far- he still sticks to the less populated areas, away from the majority of tributes. While Tommy’s taken every opportunity to learn the physical skills, taking lessons in everything from archery to hand-to-hand combat, Toby quietly learns to start fires, clean and cook a kill, and listen for animals. He spends a few hours at the awareness booth, huge headphones strapped to his ears, straining to pick up the difference in noises between a deer and a tribute. Toby’s staring down at a catalogue of plants with medical capabilities when a strangely accented voice from the next station down ruins his concentration. 

“Hey, kid! District Eleven!” 

Toby glances up, turning his head to face the man. He looks disgruntled, practically angry, face half-hidden beneath the brim of a hat with a logo Toby doesn’t recognize. “Yes?” He replies hesitantly, a little intimidated. 

“Get over here.” 

Cautiously, Toby returns the catalogue to the table and steps over, nodding politely at the med booth’s accompanying trainer. 

“Why the fuck haven’t you even picked up a weapon, kid? From the look of you, you’re gonna need it. Easy target.” The trainer says, leaning over the table with his arms folded. 

Toby winces a little. “I don’t think I have enough time to get any good with them. Besides, it doesn’t matter- everyone else is always going to be bigger and stronger, or at least more skilled.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“What?” 

“You heard me. Yeah, you’re fuckin’ tiny, there’s no way you’ll be able to out-fight anyone in close quarters, but you don’t need to get that close. All you need is this-” He reaches out and smacks Toby in the forehead with the flat of his palm. “And these.” He says, wiggling his fingers. 

“Here,” the man continues, picking up one of the rope and leather contraptions laid across his table, “hold this. Loop around this finger, pinch this end. Projectile rests here, in the pouch.” 

The contraption feels weird on Toby’s fingers, his wrist held at an odd angle to prevent the small, heavy ball from dropping out of the pouch. He fidgets with the loop around his middle finger. “What is this?” 

“It’s a sling. Less impressive than a lot of the other weapons, not as powerful or flashy, but fairly simple to make, reload, and use. Probably plenty good for what limited skill you have. Here.” The trainer gestures to a small range set up beside the booth, just three basic dummies of varying sizes. 

“Alright, so- hold it like I showed you, then start swaying a little until the centrifugal force holds it tight enough to the pouch that you can make a full circle. Raise the arm, bending at the shoulder, then, when the pouch passes your body, release with your thumb and follow through with the arm to fire.” The man demonstrates as he talks, and the projectile flies through the air to hit the center dummy right in the head with a _thud!_ that draws the attention of several other tributes. 

“Now you.” The trainer says, turning to watch. 

Toby shrinks a little under his gaze, but lines up his feet in the same stance the man had held. He tries to follow the instructions, but when he releases, the projectile flies wide, about a foot to the right and far too high for the target. 

The trainer shakes his head. “Not bad, but you’ll definitely need more practice. Try again.” And Toby does. 

It’s only later, as he finally hits the target square between the eyes, that he thinks to ask, “Why are you helping me?” 

“I’m a trainer, kid, it’s my fucking job.” 

“No, I mean…you called out. I didn’t come to your station. You went out of your way.” 

Sighing, the man raises a hand to adjust his hat, dropping his sling back onto the table. “Shit, man. You just remind me of someone I used to know.” 

Toby usually isn’t the kind to pry into other peoples’ business- in the Districts, everyone has something they need to hide- but the abrupt change in the man’s attitude makes him curious. “Someone you used to know?”

As the man lowers his hand, Toby catches sight of a scar along his forearm- the kind of scar that only comes from serious, life-or-death combat. A chill runs down his spine. When the man responds, his voice is softer than it’s been all afternoon. “You think all Victors become mentors and T.V. personalities, kid?” 

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t-” 

“Look at the Gamemakers. Think they’re all Capitol lap dogs?” 

Toby turns his head to look at them. Briefly, he catches the eye of one of the younger ones, a boy who barely looks older than him and Tommy. He’s not eating or celebrating like the others, just staring out over the gymnasium like he’s lost in memories. The simplicity of his clothes- a plain shirt and slacks, a beanie pulled down low over his hair- reminds Toby of the older teenagers back home, the ones just barely old enough to operate the machinery. 

A loud exhale turns his attention back to the trainer, who’s rubbing the raised edge of his scar as he stares up at the Gamemakers. Glancing back and forth, Toby thinks he sees something flicker over the young Gamemaker’s face as he meets the trainer’s eyes, but it’s gone in an instant. In the next moment, the man turns to serve himself more food. 

“Shit.” The trainer says again, shaking his head as he focuses back on the weapons strewn across the table. “Someone I used to know.” 

\---

The air behind the stage feels heavier than normal, thick and cloying with too much perfume and cologne, practically choking Toby as he tries to breathe. Flashing all around him are the dresses and suits of the other tributes, rebounded colors flickering over every surface and disorienting him. 

_It’s almost over,_ he thinks, trying to reassure himself. _Just Tommy, then District 12, and then you can go back to your room and sleep, finally._ His brain pounds against the front of his skull like it’s trying to escape. 

The sound of Tommy’s voice shocks him out of his trance, and Toby turns his gaze back towards the screens erected around the seating area. His friend is glittering, done up in an ostentatious suit made of a reflective gold material that collects light and throws it back almost aggressively. He looks grander than he should be, like a stranger from the Capitol, but his voice is still the same. 

The host breaks in. “So, Thomas, we all watched you volunteer for that boy at the reaping- Ian Ashborough, I believe- any particular reason? Either you’re very secretive about your friendships or we need to hire some better reporters.” He says, slyly chuckling at the audience. 

Tommy clears his throat, smile almost overbearing on his face. “No, actually, never seen him in my life before that day.” 

“In it for the glory, then, are we? Looking to take home the title?” 

“Oh, glory! Yeah, that sounds pretty good, in my opinion, but, uh, not the reason I volunteered.” 

“Oh? Do tell.” 

Tommy’s smile falters a bit, but he tacks it back on almost instantly. “I tried to volunteer for Tubbo, actually.” He laughs awkwardly, raising a hand to adjust the golden laurel wreath settled on top of his hair. “Bit off on my timing.”

“Tubbo?” 

“Uh, Toby, I guess. Always just called him Tubbo.”

“Ah, Toby Smith, the other male tribute from Eleven. Oof, that is unfortunate- how do you feel now, knowing you’ll both be facing the Games? Only one winner, of course.”

A flash of discomfort takes over Tommy’s face, but it’s gone almost before Toby registers it, replaced with a cocky smile. “Well, I think we’ll be right towards the end, of course. All these other tributes, let me tell you-” He leans towards the host, pretending to whisper as if it’s a secret. “Let me tell you, all of the others, they’re such beta males- and females! But me, I’m an _alpha male._ ” 

The host looks visibly confused. “I...see. And Toby, he’s an, uh, ‘alpha’ as well?”

Tommy scoffs, falling back into his chair. “That guy? Look at him.” 

Backstage, Toby straightens up, knowing that the feed will probably switch to footage of him. He tries not to appear too obviously uncomfortable, facing the nearest camera and attempting to look the way he should. ( _Young. Sweet._ Phil’s voice whispers in his head. _Innocent._ ) 

“Look at him. Here’s the truth,” Tommy says, leaning in once more. “He’s so clingy. Can’t get rid of him.” 

By now the host appears to have caught on, playing along with Tommy’s game. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. So clingy, God, follows you everywhere.” 

“But you tried to volunteer for him?” 

Toby turns back to the screen to see Tommy’s face become serious, eyes flat and blank with nothing visible behind them. Instead of looking at the host or the cameras, he’s staring vaguely into the middle distance. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I tried.” 

In his seat, Toby swallows past the lump in his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me to me: write the next chapter of 'they call me,' it's been a month
> 
> also me: haha tubbo oneshots go brrr


	2. Chapter 2

The night before they enter the arena, Toby awakens to Tommy crawling into his bed. 

“Tommy,” he whispers, voice croaky with sleep, “Tommy, what?” 

“I can’t sleep.” Tommy whispers back, shuffling over to face Toby. “Can I just-?” 

His eyes are huge in the dark. Toby swallows. “Yeah. It’s fine.” 

The rustling of blankets quiets. In the dark of the room, Toby can hear every breath either of them take. He notices, then, when Tommy’s breathing quickens, becoming raggedy around the edges. Without a word, he reaches out a hand, grasping at Tommy’s forearm. 

“Sorry,” Tommy gasps, latching onto the hand. “I’m sorry for waking you up.” 

“It’s okay.” Toby says, squeezing his hand tighter. 

He falls asleep with Tommy’s hand still clasped in his and a tear trailing its way across the bridge of his nose. 

(In the morning, a frantic Phil rushes into the room to wake Toby, a sentence about how he can’t find Tommy already half out of his mouth. He stops a few feet into the room, seeing the two sleeping boys curled up beside each other, and has to lean against the doorframe for a moment.

Phil’s heart clenches in his chest, but he steels himself, walking over to shake them awake. “Boys, he says, voice low. “It’s time to wake up.”)

\--- 

The sun is blindingly bright in Toby’s eyes, but it’s definitely not his biggest concern. After days in the Capitol, they’re finally in the arena, and everything is about to begin. 

From what Toby can see from his pedestal, the arena looks pretty normal: the cornucopia’s located in the middle of a field of low grass, which branches into woods and taller fields farther out. The tributes stand in a large circle, with scattered piles of supplies interspersed between them and the cornucopia, which contains the best loot. 

Clutching the bottom of his jacket nervously, Toby tries to collect his thoughts, scanning the closest items for anything useful. His gaze catches on a backpack a few meters away, and, just feet beyond that, a small bundle of paracord that makes an image of the sling trainer flash through his mind. His fingers twitch- that cord might be his only chance of a weapon. He can’t pass the opportunity up. 

Distracted by his thoughts, Toby’s caught off guard by the sound of the gong. The world snaps back into focus and he sprints towards the paracord, swinging his head from side to side to watch for other competitors. He doesn’t see anyone, so he skids to a stop and scoops the backpack from the ground, swinging it onto his back as he runs. 

The sound of footsteps behind him makes him turn, reflexively lifting an arm to block any blow that might be coming. Heading straight for him, running at full speed, is one of the Careers, a tall girl built like an ox. Her face is twisted into a sneer, and Toby scrambles backwards as she raises- _is that a hammer_ \- over her head, preparing to bring it down. 

“Get back, Toby!” A voice shouts, and Toby catches half a glimpse of Tommy’s wide-eyed face before his friend bowls into his side, knocking him to the ground. 

The clang of metal on metal echoes across their section of the field as the Career brings her hammer down onto Tommy’s raised shield. Wincing, Toby scoots backward, frantically trying to get his feet back under him. He spots the paracord lying a few feet away and, useless as it is in its current state, snatches it up, turning back to face Tommy and the girl. He’s just in time to catch a flash of reflected sunlight before there’s a sick slashing noise and something warm splatters across his face. In front of him, the Career collapses to the ground. 

Toby just has time to think _holy shit oh my god she’s dead_ before Tommy’s grabbing his arm and pulling him away, grip tight enough to hurt. He catches sight of the bloodied sword in his friend’s other hand and his stomach turns over.

“Run, Tubbo!” Tommy shouts, lifting his shield and glancing around at the other tributes. Several are close enough to be a danger, though none are looking at them right now. 

“But-” Toby stutters, fingers twisting nervously into the paracord he still clutches in his hands. 

“ _Now!_ I’m right behind you, I’ll catch up!” 

Blood drying on his face, Toby runs. 

\---

They wash their clothes out in the stream. 

Toby thinks about home: about the rough soap his and Tommy’s families had shared, about splashing his sister and dunking her head under the waves until she got fed up and complained to their parents. He thinks about washing the dirt and grass stains from the knees of his pants. 

The water runs red over his knuckles. He’s not sure it’s worth it to go home. 

\---

“Tommy?” He whispers into the darkness. 

Tommy just hums in response, carefully tipping rainwater out of the concave side of his shield to fill their last bottle. 

Toby keeps his voice low in case there are other tributes nearby. “If I don’t...could you tell my parents that-” 

“Stop it, Tubbo.” Setting the shield down, Tommy caps the bottle and returns to their sleeping nest, made from pine needles and covered by the one sleeping bag they’ve managed to acquire. 

“But-” 

“You’re going to make it back.” 

Startled, Toby laughs hollowly. “How? You don’t know that.” 

“I do. I’ll be right there with you, almost. You _will_ make it, I promise. I’ll do anything.” 

Silence echoes around their cave. Toby struggles not to think about how defeated Tommy sounds, how convinced he is of this solution. 

(Secretly, Toby resolves himself to the same promise. Tommy is strong. He can make it, if Toby is left behind.)

He clears his throat and tries again. “But just in case...would you tell them I love them? And my sister. Please, Tommy.” 

In the quiet, Toby can hear Tommy swallow. “I will.” 

There’s a few moments of rustling as they both settle down to sleep for the night, then-

“Would you-? Just in case.” Tommy’s voice shakes.

“Yes. Of course.” 

“Thanks.” 

No more words are spoken. They sleep. 

\---

A wind blows pleasantly through the trees, and Toby shivers, thinking of a day just like this one. Different places, different times, different food, but otherwise, it’s still just them- Tommy and Toby, best friends forever, sharing lunch in a tree overlooking the fields. 

He smiles, pleased with this small moment of peace, and kicks his foot out to nudge Tommy in the side. “Hey, remember when we stole Jack’s work shirt and dyed it pink?” 

Tommy turns to face him, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Yeah, with those flowers we found? Legendary.” 

“And he’d just gotten it, and had to explain to the supervisor what had happened, but couldn’t think of anything and just said ‘pigs’ for no reason?” 

“What the fuck kind of answer was that? We didn’t even have pigs in Eleven!” 

“Pink, pigs, natural association, obviously.” 

“He’s so dumb.” 

“Like you.” 

“Tubbo! These things hurt.” Tommy pouts, swinging his foot into Toby’s ankle. 

Laughing, Toby dodges a second kick. “Serves you right for taking the last of the squirrel.” 

“You have your wild carrot, don’t get mad. I hunt, you gather.” 

“Wow, together we’re almost a fully capable person.” 

“Rude! I am capable. And strong. I am capable and strong.” 

Toby just laughs, savoring the sunlight on his face. For now, at least, everything is okay. 

\---

Tommy’s been hunting for longer than normal. 

Glancing over his shoulder, Toby checks the surrounding forest. He’s been sitting in his tree for a while, long enough that the sun has visibly shifted in the sky, currently almost directly overhead. It’s boring. 

He kicks his feet for a bit, reorganizes their packs, thinks about their plan for the next few days. The boundaries at the edges of the arena have been steadily closing in, pushing Tommy and Toby out of their cave and back into the woods. The animals have been less and less frequent, too, which is probably the reason Tommy’s taking so long. Wary of the changes in the arena, they’ve been more cautious with their activities, trying to keep out of sight and retreating to trees to hide when they hear tributes nearby. 

(Sometimes, before they started moving, Tommy would return from hunting trips with a dripping sword and shuttered eyes. On those days, the cannon always followed, and Toby would watch Tommy flinch at the noise before suggesting that they move on. 

Toby doesn’t like feeling weak, especially in the arena, but this is one instance where he accepts his own weakness. He doesn’t think he could stand to do what Tommy does.) 

More time passes. Toby scratches his initials into the tree with the edge of his backpack’s zipper, playing with the straps of the bag. Bored, he stares out over the field, catching sight of a patch of what looks like Queen Anne’s lace, one of the many edible plants scattered around the arena. After another quick glance around the forest, he swings his pack onto his back and descends the tree, figuring he might as well make himself useful and gather some plants while he waits. 

It’s a quick hike to the patch he saw from the tree. Nervous about the lack of cover, Toby slips his sling from his backpack, loading it with a medium-sized rock just in case. While he’s bending down to inspect the stem, checking to ensure it’s not hemlock instead, the crackle of a breaking stick sounds from the edge of the forest. In an instant, he straightens, swinging his sling by his side in anticipation. 

“Tommy?” He calls cautiously. 

A figure steps out from the treeline. Toby just has time to register a shock of dark hair, letting him know it’s not Tommy, before he throws, releasing the rock with a snap of the sling. In his surprise, his aim is off, and the shot goes low, hitting the boy in the collarbone with a sick crack and, from the pain on his face, likely breaking it. The boy curses, right arm hanging limp, but he still manages to raise his crossbow with his left hand. 

Toby just has time to watch his finger press the lever to release a bolt before there’s a dull _thump!_ and pain spreads through his body. His knees give out, and he falls. 

The world is liquid around him, fading in and out as pain spikes from his chest, spiraling into his limbs. Straining to focus, Toby sees the boy jerk his head to the side, as if startled by a noise, before running deeper into the woods. 

Alone. 

Toby lays in the flowers, mind drifting as waves of pain wash over him. He sees a bee floating cautiously towards him and smiles, gritting his teeth against the hurt. 

“Hey there, little bee.” 

It buzzes closer. 

“Checking out these flowers? Don’t worry, I’ll probably be out of your way soon.” Toby raises a hand towards the insect, which darts away quickly before returning. “A big floating thing will come and take me away.” He pauses to take a rattling breath. “Do you have a family in here?” 

Uninterested, the bee flits over to a blue flower growing near Toby’s hip. 

“I don’t. Just Tommy.” 

It crawls steadily across the petals. 

“I hope he’ll be okay.” 

The bee buzzes loudly, moving to a different flower. 

“Yeah, you’re right. He’s strong. I’m the weak one.” Toby laughs weakly, and something warm bubbles up over his lips. “Yeah, he’ll be okay.” He sighs, closing his eyes. 

A call from the forest disrupts him. “Tubbo?” A gasp, then footsteps pounding in his direction. Toby opens his eyes to see Tommy crashing to his knees beside him. Indignant, the bee buzzes away. 

“Hey, Tommy.” Toby says, voice just barely making it over a whisper. 

“Toby, how…” 

“A boy. District 3, I think. He got away…” 

Tommy curses, tossing through his pack. Toby tries to track his movements, but he’s so tired...his heavy eyes threaten to slip closed, but he blinks them stubbornly open again. 

“Tommy, do you remember-” He coughs, feeling more blood splatter out. “Do you remember- the cave?” 

“You’re not going to d-die, Tubbo, I’m here, I’m going to help you, you’ll be alright.” Tommy finally appears to find what he was looking for, pulling a string of bandaging out of the bag. He slowly slides the bolt out of Toby’s chest, apologizing when a choked noise spills from Toby’s mouth, and presses the bandage harshly against the wound. “Apply pressure, right? That’s it, got to apply pressure.” 

“Tommy.” Toby weakly raises a hand, though it feels like there’s weights tied around his wrist. He settles it on top of Tommy’s, which are still pushing against his chest. 

“You’ll be alright, you’ll be okay, just hold on, Tubbo.” 

“Tell Phil-” Breathing is getting difficult. “Tell Phil I’m sorry.” 

“Toby, no-” Tommy chokes out, pressing harder. 

“You’ll be okay, Tommy. You can win this. You can do it, I know you can.” 

“No, Tubbo, I can’t do it without you, I-” 

“Remember, about my parents.” 

Tommy sobs. 

“Tommy, remember…” 

“I will, I will, I’ll tell them.” 

“Thank you.” Toby breathes, closing his eyes. He feels like he’s sinking into the ground, the grass and weeds coming up to embrace him, wrapping around his arms. The sun is warm on his face, and the clovers are soft beneath him, and he can hear the bees buzzing and the birds chirping from their trees. He can hear Tommy crying, too, but it’s okay. He’ll get through this. 

A smile finds its way onto Toby’s face, and he lets go. 

A cannon echoes in the distance. 

\---

Kneeling next to the body, Tommy lets himself cry. 

“Fuck!” He shouts, pounding a fist on the ground. He doesn’t care who hears anymore. Leaning down, he props his head in his hands, but they’re still covered in blood, _Tubbo’s_ blood, and he cries harder, gasping on it. 

Through his sobs, he hears the slight ‘ping!’ of a sponsored package hitting the ground. He doesn’t care, not anymore, not now, but he looks up anyway, opens it anyway, robotically twisting the clasp to reveal the box’s contents. 

He stares down at a curled pile of bandages. And in the center, a pot of fast-healing cream. The kind that knits a wound closed in moments. 

Tommy throws the package to the ground. Twisting his fingers tight into his hair, hard enough to sting his scap, he sobs anew. 

The sun is still shining. The birds are still chirping. The bees are still buzzing. Tommy is still crying.

In the center of a field of flowers, Toby breathes no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeehaw *cries*
> 
> thank you for reading! feel free to check out my other works- my writing is all over the place, but it's mainly lunch club rn (more sleepy boys/dream team/etc will be coming soon!)


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